Snowfall
by Morcondil
Summary: All Manwë wanted was to go sled racing. Was that too much to ask?


_**Snowfall**_  
by Morcondil

* * *

On Oiolossë, Taniquetil's highest peak, the first snowflake is always silver. Manwë watched it swirl and twist from the heavens. It lay, shimmering, on the great crystal steps that led to the palace. And then the rest came, just a few at first, before dozens and hundreds and thousands spiraled through the air in a lacy ballet. Soon the stairs, the terrace and the vast slopes beyond were cloaked in fresh snow. The handmaidens that lolled in the queen's ice-garden reached up their graceful arms and caught the feathery crystals in their palms. The golden eagles that perched on the roof spread their wings and cried out, shaking the snow from their plumage. And the few, scraggly trees, usually so stiff and stern, forgot themselves and swayed back and forth, their branches rippling in the white air.

Manwë flung open the window with a shout of exhilaration. Like new, every year. The jolt, the wide, brilliant burst of light that started the winter season. Yes, it was here! Impulsively, he leaned as far out of the window as he could and caught a handful of snowflakes. He spun around and hurled them wildly into the room.

"Ahem!" An exasperated-looking queen brushed the snow from her immaculate tunic.

"Oh! Varda! Sorry, my dear, sorry!" called Manwë. "It's the first snow, Varda, the first snow! And do you know what that means?" He clapped his wife heartily on the back, causing her to wince. "It means that the sledging season has begun! This is the year I best Tulkas and Oromë; I can feel it! What peace we shall have this season without their constant boasting!"

"It means," said Varda primly, "that there will be more mud on my floor than usual, and that you'll most likely kill yourself by racing down the mountain with those buffoon friends of yours. And—"

"Buffoons?" repeated Manwë, brows rising to meet his hairline. "Really, Varda, just because they're better at sledging than you—"

"My dear Manwë," sniffed the queen, " _my_ personal abilities have nothing to do with this. I merely stated a fact: your friends are buffoons." She smiled, obviously convinced that she had the upper hand. "Now run along to your study, dear, and finish that letter you were writing to Aulë."

Chastened, Manwë hitched his heavy velvet robe over his arm and strode down the long hallway to his study. On one side a row of windows showed him the whirling snowstorm outdoors; on the other a row of bright mirrors should have shown him the same. However, the queen's handmaidens had been up to their usual tricks and had transformed the glass into a silvery sea for their own amusement. Manwë muttered under his breath. He'd been after Varda for years, attempting to convince her that she needed to take better control of her attendants. They were untidy and scatterbrained, utterly hopeless at household management. Yet the queen stubbornly refused to dismiss them, claiming that they amused her. Manwë, however, was less than amused, and he hurried on.

His study was a disaster. The room was awash in stacks of ancient correspondence, wind-flow charts, and soiled clothes. One of the eagles had even built her nest on top of a bookshelf, and the newly hatched chicks' chirping filled the cluttered space. Varda despaired of ever organizing the room, but Manwë didn't mind the mess. He had ordered his study in the manner he liked best: no order at all. It was a great deal more efficient than his wife's endless lists and labels, no matter what she might say to the contrary.

"Now, where _has_ that letter got to?" Manwë asked himself, casting his eyes about the chaotic study. He had left the room in a rather large hurry, what with the snow and all, and he had flung the contents of his desk about in his excitement.

After a lengthy search, Manwë pulled the half-written letter from beneath the corner of his rug. "A little wrinkled perhaps, but not too terrible," he said. "And anyway, grimy, sweaty workmen cannot be too particular with the state of their correspondence. Like as not Aulë would only soil it himself."

He sat down before his disastrous desk, clearing a little space for his parchment, and dipped his quill into the inkpot. No sooner had he done this than an impatient hand wrapped on his door.

"My lord, might I have a word?"

Manwë looked up, not at all disappointed by the interruption. (Why Aulë thought he was interested in endless descriptions of the proper technique to heat a copper bar, he would never know.) "Of course, Eönwë, come in! Have you seen the snow?"

"Yes, I have, my lord," replied the dour herald. He glanced out the window and frowned.

Manwë sighed. "Eönwë, Eönwë. What shall I do with him?" he muttered beneath his breath. "Weeping in corners all day long like some misbegotten relative of Nienna's. But," he went on, brightening, "what would I do without Eönwë? Dependable creature, willing and obedient. Never been known to double-talk. Handy in a tight spot. Honest, too. But glum to the very core. Glum."

He looked back to the herald, failing to notice the lesser being's studied indifference and clenched jaw. "Well, what is it that you want, Eönwë? Aren't you supposed to be at that soiree King Ingwë was giving for his youngest daughter's betrothal?"

The herald inclined his head. "I was, but the king desired that I make a request of you, concerning his niece."

"His niece?"

A condescending voice came from the door. " _Indis_ , dear. She's married to King Finwë. You attended their wedding, remember?"

Manwë shot a petulant glance toward his wife. Honestly! Did they think he had nothing better to do with his time than memorize the names of all the Eldalië and their connections with one another? He was a _very_ busy man.

Choosing to ignore Varda, he turned his attention back to Eönwë. "So Ingwë the king wants me to do something for his niece, Indis the queen?"

"Yes, my lord. You see, those who study weather patterns are saying that it will be a mild winter in Tirion, and the young princes Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë are so very—"

"Who?"

Varda huffed. "The _princes_ , dear. Indis's sons." She rolled her eyes.

Manwë scowled, but nodded at his herald. "Continue."

"Yes, well..." Eönwë cleared his throat. "As I was saying, the princes are so very fond of sledging, and the thought of not having any snow is so very disappointing, that Ingwë wondered if you might perhaps allow his nephews to come and—ah, borrow, a small part of the mountainside?"

"They want to _borrow_ my snow?" repeated Manwë. He crossed his arms. "Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes," whispered the herald, paling.

"Of course the young princes can use our snow," interjected Varda. "Just tell them to stay out of the way when my husband and his buffoon friends are out—they'll likely be crushed."

"Now, wait a minute," cried Manwë, "I didn't—"

But the queen was already shooing Eönwë out into the hall, covering Manwë's objections with cheerful, womanly blathering. She shut the door with a soft thump and turned predatory eyes toward her husband.

"Now, my dear, what were you saying?" she asked sweetly.

He glared. "It would serve the little runts right if I ran them down," he muttered. "Borrow my snow, indeed!"

Varda patted him on the chest. "Really, my dear, it's the least we can do," she told him, still smiling. "And think of the political kerfuffle you would cause if you did injure one of the princes."

"I ought to wring your neck for this." He peered down at her through slitted eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous, Manwë," she said. "Remember what happened the last time you tried that?" She rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Now finish that letter, dear, and perhaps after supper I'll let you go play outside."

Manwë stared after her for a moment, then sat down to write.

* * *

This is a companion piece to _Rest, relaxation, & other strange pursuits_. If you enjoy humorous tales of Manwë the Incompetent, you might like that as well.


End file.
